The same enthusiasm was shown by painters, sculptors and writers of all kinds. What was a thought on paper, on canvas or in stone now compared with the privilege of doing service for one's country!
While the first regiments were being called out, more than one million reserves had offered themselves freiwillig. They were willing to go and take any place, even the most dangerous, in any regiment, just as long as they could serve their country.
One day I met a hairdresser who had two sons; the one had been called into service and the other had enlisted and was to be called out in two weeks. When I asked the father if he did not object to having both sons leave he said, "It is better to have them go than to have them grumbling every day at home because they cannot help the fatherland."
A few days later I met two young men on a train. They were tired, dirty and impatient. The explanation for all this was that they had offered themselves at a neighboring ministry of war and were refused because there were too many reserves on hand.
About the same time a young girl told me seven of her relatives had been called into service. One of her brothers-in-law was disqualified, for he had been hurt while doing his one year military service. Still he was determined to go, and applied at six different ministries of war before he was finally accepted to help build up the Landsturm.
More than two-thirds of the great physicians and surgeons of Germany are in the war. Many of these are volunteers. Those who are too old for active service are doing their duty in hospitals or in the Red Cross field. But many who could do this lighter work are fighting in their regiments. As one well-known German physician said to me, "No, indeed, I want to go with my regiment. When my country is at peace I am willing to look after the sick, but now it is time for me to fight. I wish it were today, for two days seems like two months when a man is ready to go."
I saw another physician work all day until nine o'clock in the evening; though he had received his commission at seven, he continued his work as though nothing had happened. Then he gathered a small package of papers which probably contained important letters and money, which he handed over to the physician in the institute. He then hurried to his room and put on his military clothes—they were those of a third-class military officer. The change in costume seemed to make a different man of him. He was no longer a physician but a war hero. He bade each one goodbye in turn, even to the scrub-women, saying he hoped that they would all meet again next year, and then he hurried to his room to get a few hours of sleep as he had to leave at five next morning. The only care he had on his breast was what would become of his mother—a dear old lady of seventy, whom he loved very much—if anything should happen to him.
One day while walking across the country road, I stepped up to a farmer and said: "When do you go to the war?"
"Next week," came the blunt reply.
"And who will do your work while you are gone?"